


Not A Thing That I Would Change

by telperion_15



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Vanity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-24
Updated: 2012-10-24
Packaged: 2017-11-16 23:33:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/545038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telperion_15/pseuds/telperion_15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James is worrying unnecessarily.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not A Thing That I Would Change

His Sunday morning ritual was one Michael cherished, when he had time to indulge in it. Lazing around in bed with newspapers and the radio muttering quietly in the background, and with James curled up by his side, either reading over his shoulder or failing miserably and hilariously at the _Times_ crossword – these were the things real life was made of, a life that neither of them got to live all that often.

They had both been so busy recently that it had been a month of Sundays (or at least, it felt like it) since they had been able to have this. And it would have been perfect except for the fact that, where there should have been the warm weight of James next to Michael, there were only abandoned pillows and cooling sheets.

James had disappeared into the bathroom ten minutes earlier, and although Michael was trying not to worry, he _was_ starting to wonder. There was no sound of running water, so James couldn’t be showering (and besides, showering didn’t generally feature in their lazy Sunday mornings until _much_ later), but Michael was hard-pressed to work out what else could be keeping James away from him for so long.

The sharp hiss of something that _might_ have been pain, which drifted through the slender gap between the bathroom door and its frame, sent wonder scurrying towards concern, however.

“James?”

“It’s fine, I’m fine, don’t worry!” James called back instantly.

But the thread of panic that laced the words had Michael tossing aside the newspaper and rising from the bed quicker than it took to blink, so he could hurry over to the bathroom door.

“James!”

James wasn’t lying in a crumpled heap on the floor, or in a bleeding one in the bath, or even hanging over the toilet, or any of the other terrifying fantasies that Michael’s mind had conjured up in the short seconds before he had burst into the bathroom. He was in fact standing by the sink, looking rather sheepish and still a little bit panicked.

“I told you, I’m fine, there was no need to come rushing in here.”

“But you sounded…what is it, what’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing, really. Go back to bed, I’ll be there in a minute. And then you can laugh at my total inability to solve seventeen down, I promise.”

“Well, if you’re sure…?” Michael was still doubtful. Something was going on, he knew, but he also knew that James could be incredibly stubborn when he chose, and that badgering him was unlikely to elicit any kind of satisfactory response.

“I’m sure. Go on with you.”

But as Michael turned to go, something caught his eye – a long streak of silver lying in the bottom of the sink, shining in the harsh white glare of the bathroom lighting.

He stared at it, transfixed, for a moment, and then swung back round to look at James, whose guilty expression told Michael he knew exactly what Michael had spotted.

“James, have you been _plucking out_ your grey hairs?”

“…maybe?”

“ _Why?_ ”

“Did you know that I had to have my hair dyed for my last role?” said James, which wasn’t really an answer.

“I remember you telling me. I also remember you grumbling a lot about it.”

“And did it never occur to you to wonder why I was grumbling? Or they were dying my hair exactly the same shade it already was? Because it occurred to me.”

“…oh.” And Michael realised that it was an answer, after all.

“Yes, _oh_.”

“But who cares if you have a few grey hairs?”

“Film producers, obviously,” snapped James, and how had Michael never noticed how much this had affected him? “They don’t quite fit with the whole ‘boyish good looks’ thing, after all.”

“But they don’t make you any less good-looking,” Michael argued, suddenly outraged on James’ behalf. “They don’t _matter_.”

“Says the man who has precisely none, even though he’s two years older than me,” muttered James bitterly, and if Michael ever discovered precisely _which_ film producer was responsible for making James dye his hair – well, it wasn’t going to be a pretty death.

“James, really, they don’t matter. They…”

“If you say they make me look distinguished, I might have to hurt you,” James said, obviously attempting humour but missing it by a margin wider than the Grand Canyon.

“I wasn’t going to say that at all! James, I love you…”

“In spite of them – yes, I know.” James looked away, his eyes obviously drawn to the silver hair still lying in the sink. It glinted at them almost mockingly, and Michael homicidal tendencies developed new and interesting dimensions.

With an effort, he reined in his anger. “James, look at me, please.”

Unwillingly, it seemed, James raised his eyes again, and Michael took the opportunity to step forward and cradle James’ face in his hands, so James had to choice but to keep looking at him as he spoke.

“James, I don’t love you in spite of them, or even _because_ of them, or any of that rubbish. I just love you. _All_ of you.”

James’ eyes widened a little bit, at that.

“I’d love you if your hair was brown or grey or green or blue, or if you had no hair at all. It doesn’t matter to me.”

“I’d be careful what you say. There’s a tendency towards baldness in my family.” The words were accompanied by a tiny smile, which Michael couldn’t help but lean in and kiss.

“And anyone who tries to tell you you’re not gorgeous just the way you are will have me to deal with,” he added.

_That_ got him a laugh.

“Thank you, but I don’t think beating up producers is a terribly good idea. I suspect we would both like to work in this town again.”

“There are other towns,” said Michael dismissively. “Now, will you come back to bed? I think I hear the crossword calling you.”

“No, what you hear is the crossword laughing at me,” replied James, the smile a bit larger this time.

But he nonetheless followed Michael back to the bed, and Michael’s Sunday morning ritual returned to what it should be, the quiet punctuated only by the radio murmuring classic Beatles songs, the rustle of turning newspaper pages, and James’ periodic grumbles at cryptic clues.

And if James leaned into the touch and sighed contentedly when Michael slid hand up the back of James’ neck to tangle his fingers in chestnut and silver strands, and if he murmured “I love you” quietly to his crossword puzzle, then those things just made it the most perfect Sunday morning ever, as far as Michael was concerned.


End file.
